Recovery
by TheMidnightOwl
Summary: After his faked suicide, Sherlock left London. He told himself he wouldn't return until it was safe for the people closest to him. But a new serial killer has emerged in the city's streets, one unlike anything he had ever seen. He has returned in secret in case Moriarty's dogs are watching. But the killer quickly proves himself the greatest challenge he may ever face.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Playing the violin usually helped him think at night, but with the noise his neighbours were making next door, it was hardly worth trying to fight it. He never understood the idea of a party at three a.m. with obnoxiously loud music and the base ready to collapse the entire structure. It's a good thing he didn't sleep much. But the senseless noise of the intellectually impaired next door did make it difficult to concentrate. In the absence of sleep, thoughts are the only companion to a genius. He rarely slept.

The noise was just another reason to miss Baker Street. Despite being in the heart of London, it was a relatively quiet place; inhabited by mutes in comparison to this lot. Any neighbours he had never lasted long with the strange company he attracted, but they were all reasonably quiet when it counted. Now that he was on his own, he couldn't afford to live in London anymore. Any attempts at finding another flatmate had resulted in frustration. The few he had given chances to did not possess John's tolerance and understanding and enjoyment of his lifestyle. No, they weren't John. But John was the past. He was never fond of suburbs, so when London was no longer available, he had settled for Birmingham. A city's a city when everyone you had grown fond of now thinks you're dead.

Sometimes it felt like he had never met John. Sometimes Baker Street felt like a dream. He was as addicted to the puzzles as ever, but the resemblance Birmingham bore to London made him feel an unusual tugging sensation in his chest that he did not like in the slightest. Never in his life had he felt such an urge to run as far away as possible, but he was always one to listen to his instincts. So he travelled to the States and was renting a small flat in Los Angeles, California. He absolutely abhorred the place, and that's why it was so ideal. This move was not intended to be permanent, and this would ensure it.

There was no shortage of interesting cases, though. The United States is a breeding ground for murderers for some unknown reason. While serial killings and violent crimes are not limited to the States, they certainly have a reputation for occurring here the most. And the more competition, the more creative they get. He frequently assisted the Los Angeles Police Department under a false identity should the media here be as interested in him as they had been in London; the last thing he needed right now was John seeing his face on an international news website. He had even worked closely with profilers from the Federal Bureau of Investigation on a case, something he'd secretly always wanted to experience. They, of course, hated his ability to see more than their eyes, trained for years in the academy, could in half the time with the evidence.

Aside from the generally useless input from the LAPD, he solved the cases on his own, his lonely trade faring better than it used to without a partner. He made enough money to get by. But when there wasn't anything to do, no case to consume his attention, he found loneliness hurting him for the first time in his life. That was peculiar and unwelcome. So he worked almost 24/7 now with the police or with independent cases to distract himself from the pain he would never admit to. With work still to be done tracking down the last of Moriarty's dogs though, those nights of nothing to distract him were few and far between. He had made up his mind that he would not return to London until he could be sure that his return would be safe for the people that had almost been killed because of his game with the consultant criminal.

He didn't possess mirrors anymore. The one over the mantel at 221B used to help him see things he couldn't, but now they made him remember things. _"He's so thin, he almost never eats,"_ he had overheard John saying to Mrs. Hudson one evening, voice wrought with apprehension. The last time he had looked in a mirror, he could count his ribs. They had always slightly protruded, the result of a naturally slim build, but apparently he was forgetting more meals than usual. He didn't like hearing those ghosts, so he had thrown the mirrors out a window. But they still found ways of plaguing his consciousness.

_"Have you been up all night?" John asked as he emerged from his room, a hint of concern in his tone._

_"Wasn't tired," he replied monotonously, "too busy thinking."_

_"Sometimes I worry about you," John mumbled under his breath at a volume he assumed Sherlock couldn't hear. Of course he had._

That was another necessity he found himself indulging in less. Every time he walked to the bedroom, for sleep or not, he found himself slapped in the face with those looks of silent concern John would get when he thought he wasn't looking. Naturally, as a doctor, he was concerned for everyone and anyone's health, and apparently Sherlock's eating and sleeping habits were considered unhealthy. But whenever he found himself ready to sleep, and he went to his room, those memories would wake him up. When he was truly in need of sleep he would slip into unconsciousness wherever he was: on the chair, on the couch, at his computer, sitting on the windowsill, wherever his body decided it was time for a break. The sleep never lasted long, but it was all he needed now.

He still kept up with the police force in London, despite his departure from the city. Their incompetence was infuriating sometimes. From the newspapers alone he could tell them what they had missed, but in fear of John consulting with them still, he said nothing to them. Not even anonymous tips. They managed to close enough cases to keep the people satisfied and that would have to be enough for him for now. But he still kept up with what was happening there. Which was why he was going back.

Three weeks ago, a serial killer had emerged in the heart of the city. One victim a week, precise to the day. The city was no stranger to crime. It was the frequency and short time table that alarmed its residence, and an overwhelming sense of panic had set in. The police were doing what they could, but this one was something new. He was brutal and ruthless, but not sloppy the way most aggressive types usually are. Working with the FBI had taught him a substantial amount about the mind of a serial killer, and now he would put that to the test back in London. It was a big city, but the police would be everywhere. For the sake of the sanity of those he left behind, he hoped they wouldn't spot him. Or at least would stay out of his way. Unless it was Anderson. That might be amusing.

He was on the plane now, just departing from LAX. With eleven hours direct flight from Los Angeles to London Heathrow Airport, he had plenty of time to review the biased news sources and official filtered statements from the police. But it's all he had to go on for now. One thing he could tell for certain is the killer had a remarkable amount of training and patience. He would be able to tell more once he saw the victims.

He hoped the police would cooperate for once.

* * *

**UPDATE: I went back and changed a few minor details that I realized did not sync up with where the story ended up going in future chapters. Should hopefully prevent any confusion.**

**Please feel free to leave any comments. Something you liked, something you didn't like, I appreciate it all. Thanks so much for reading!**


	2. Molly Hooper

Chapter 1

Molly Hooper. That name had never affected him before the fall, but he had never been happier to know he would be seeing her. How many months had it been since that day on the roof? He had lost count. A familiar face would be pleasant. And he knew she would assist him. She always had.

_"You're wrong, you know." Molly had assumed she was alone in the lab. His sudden presence startled her. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. You were right. He turned his neck to look her in the eye. "I'm not okay."_

_"Tell me what's wrong," her voice was serious, but maternal. _

_"Molly," he rose from his seat, pausing for half a moment to prevent his voice from cracking, "I think I'm going to die."_

_"What do you need?" she was hiding concern._

_"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?" His eyes roamed her face for any tells of doubt or lies._

_"What do you need?" He wished he could understand her feelings for him. He had worked out long ago she felt some sort of attraction to him, but why she continued to feel this when he never had nor ever would reciprocate them was probably something more than he deserved. But right now, he needed more than ever for those emotions to keep her on his side. So he stepped closer to her, never once breaking eye contact, and tried, as best he could, to show how important she was in his life as he asked her to do something so difficult._

_"You."_

Yes, he had needed her. He needed her to confirm him dead, write up his death certificate, and arrange a body for a coffin. Closed-casket was simple enough to respect for the five or so people that might actually show up to the wake and funeral: he had jumped off a building. Molly Hooper. He couldn't have lived without her. Nor would have Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or John. He smiled faintly at the irony.

He couldn't remember if he ever properly thanked her for her assistance. He had not made contact with her since he left, but he did recall giving her a kiss on the cheek at the airport. She saw him off to the Americas while fighting off tears. A few had trickled down her reddened face. He kissed one away. Did that count as a thank you? He was certain she had conceived it as such. Molly Hooper was such a sentimental creature.

He was excited for the promise of the game. Chasing serial killers in America had been fun and all, but there was something about London that was more thrilling. He had spent the better half of his life in that city. He knew every street, every sign, every building, every sidewalk. Knowing the playing field gives one a good advantage, though he knew very well he did just fine without it. Nonetheless, there was a sense of home in that city. He had never called any place "home" before 221B. But he wasn't going back to 221B. He was going to St. Bartholomew's hospital.

The cab ride from the airport to the hospital wasn't terribly long; nothing compared to the flight he had just taken. Most people would take at least a few hours to set their belongings down at a hotel, but the flight had made him anxious to begin the chase. He was not wasting any more time.

They really needed to reconsider having such minimal security at this hospital. One white lie about knowing the way to his friend's room and he was on his way down to the morgue. No doctors or nurses questioned his presence outside the patients' wing but clearly nobody recognized him. It was almost concerning. At the same time, it made his goal that much more obtainable.

He knew Molly would be in today. He also knew she would be the one assessing the victims. Molly was a phenomenal mortician, and as she was the only one he really trusted, she was the only one he would let examine the victims of cases he was invited in to. The police had taken to consulting her regularly. According to the papers, that trend had not faltered.

He found her in the lab. There were three of these rooms in the hospital, but he had only ever used one. She used to use whichever one was available, never really preferring one over the other as they all had the same resources, but he had always been particular. Not long before he left he had noticed she had stopped using the other two labs, only ever used the one he frequented. However many months later and she was still only using that same one.

"You told me once you preferred Pathology Two," he reminisced, recalling details of their conversations she had likely forgotten long ago, "you said it was the only one with windows and you liked looking at the sky to help you think while the data was processing."

Molly Hooper started at the sound of a familiar, deep velvet voice, almost knocking over her tissue samples. She looked up in disbelief at the thin, pale figure standing in the doorway, staring a conversation the only way he knew how. He locked eyes with her. "Do you still do that?"

"Sherlock," she breathed. His lips pulled up into a faint smile. It had been far too long since anyone had called him that. She crossed the room in a few rushed bounds and captured him in a tight embrace. Unusual; Molly had always been so shy and hesitant, not just around him, but around everyone. This was rather bold for the timid girl. He never knew what was to be done in a hug, how you were supposed to respond the contact, but he knew she deserved some sort of reciprocation, so he patted her shoulders. He felt her tense and quickly pull away, recomposing herself.

"It's, um, it's really good to see you," she said nervously, her words as choppy and carefully chosen as ever. She still could not control her smile, her anxious laughter, or awkward movements around him. It was relieving to know she had not changed. He could only imagine what the others must be like now.

"And you," he hoped this reunion wouldn't last much longer.

"You're back because of what's happening, aren't you?" he looked at her quizzically. She had gotten smarter. "When you left, you said that you couldn't come back, in case Moriarty still had people here. The police are still investigating his affiliates. You're here because of the killings."

"The police are in way over their heads," he paced as he divulged what he knew. "I can't tell much for certain right now because all I've had to go on since they started are the papers, and we all know how reliable those are, they said that Moriarty wasn't real and I was dead in the same week. What I can say for certain right now is that he is beyond their skill level. He's patient, he's precise, he's cunning, and he's playing them. He's looking for attention and that's exactly what they're giving him. You don't give attention to an attention-seeking killer if you intend to catch them. But I can't do anything unless I see the bodies of the victims. He'll keep on killing until I catch him because the police certainly won't."

"The first victim has already been cremated," she responded with disappointed, "I could try and get her clothing and belongings she had on at the time if you'd like to take a look at those. I'm not sure they'll let me, but it's worth a shot, yeah?"

"Yes, good," he continued pacing, deep in thought, "what about the others?"

"Already processed, but still here. I'm still looking at the second one, but he'll be taken to the funeral home soon. I've only got a few days left with him. There are still a few tests being completed on the most recent one, but they're tests I've run before on the others. Not likely he's deviated from his patterns, is it?"

"No, no this isn't someone who would make a mistake so early," he let the pads of his index fingers rest on his lips, hands in a prayer position. "If we're looking for a stray from the pattern, we won't find it for at least three more bodies. Waste of time to run the same tests, but keep running them if it means I can examine the bodies longer. I'd like to see them now, if it's possible."

"Um," she hesitated, "I'm not sure. My boss knows I'm done in the morgue today –"

"Well, we've run in to that problem before," he forced a playful tone and smile. "What do you usually say to him when I need a moment more with a victim?"

"Um," she refused to meet his eyes. "I'm off early today; he knows I wouldn't be down there for much longer…"

"Molly," he stepped closer to her. "He kills another one every Wednesday. We've got two days until he kills again. The longer we delay this, the longer it will take us to catch him, and the more people he'll have a chance to kill."

"I'm just worried about how you'll keep the police unaware," she shrank under his stare, "if you're assisting them. Are you assisting them?"

"No," he held back his impatience, "Lastrade is working this case. I can't assist them. I'll hand him over to them once I've caught him, anonymous tip for his location, the usual vigilante takedown. But right now they're to be kept in the dark about my involvement." He tilted her chin up so she would meet his eyes. "I need your help again, Molly." Her pupils dilated. She wouldn't resist anymore.

* * *

**Please leave any comments or constructive criticism. A simple "hey nice job" can go a long way. Thanks so much for reading!**


	3. Meet Your Match

Chapter 2

Oh, he was good. He was very good. Either this man has killed before or he planned these acts months, if not years, in advance. Normally there is a progression of a killer's skills as he finds his feet, so to speak, a "learning curve" as he grows accustomed to what to expect and how to make what he wants happen. Three hours with both victims not burned to a crisp and resting in an urn on someone's fireplace, and he had not found any solid evidence on the bodies. What that gave him, however, was a very solid profile of who they were looking for.

He had been faced with thorough killers before; people who knew how to cover their tracks were not new to him. That made the chase all the more exciting. But this one's work was different: for one thing, he used a knife. He had faced bullets and snipers and bombs and poison and blackmail as weapons of choice, even a boomerang, but knives were so much different because knives required a certain personalization that not many people were fond of nowadays. A blade is only one step away from taking someone's life with your own two hands, it requires you to look in their eyes and watch them fade away, feel them screaming in your ear, maybe even fight against their struggling. It is not an easy kill, it requires strength and determination. It also requires a certain level of coldness. Because you don't have to enjoy killing, you just have to want it. And this guy was determined.

The knife marks themselves were the most interesting. No hesitation marks. Not a single one. Each victim had been stabbed exactly seven times in the same seven places. Never any major arteries, the cause of death ultimately loss of blood; they died slowly and painfully. The killer had not hesitated on any thrust, his hand had never trembled. This ruled out a psychopath; when a psychopath becomes a killer, they are disorganized, sloppy, and leave a lot of evidence behind. This man is meticulous, cunning, and careful. He is also angry: the amount of overkill on each victim shows a merciless killer on a rage-fueled mission. Those are often the most dangerous, for any sanctity in life is completely absent from their consciousness. These people were tortured, beaten to be subdued, stabbed seven times, and then left to bleed.

Nothing about the method of the kills and the acts themselves added up: where there is rage there should be mistakes, but there are none that he can see, and he sees everything. Where there is a mission there is a message, but again, there are none to be found. Where there is this level slaughter, there is no control, but everything about these crimes is controlled. How they die, when they die, where they die, where they are stabbed, where they are taken, when they are found, everything is planned.

He has the police stumped. That much was obvious to him. But despite the confusing evidence, this left him with a lot to go with. He knew he was looking for someone with at least basic knowledge of law enforcement; otherwise he would not be able to play them so easily. He knew he was looking for someone with greater knowledge of the human body, for each wound is precisely placed where it will be the most painful and take the longest to bleed, with surgery able to do them minimal. He knew he was looking for someone with training in hand-to-hand combat; an average person could not subdue three grown men so easily with just a knife at his disposal. The bruising on each of the victims suggests training. A lot of things about the victims suggested training. The level of overkill combined with the obsessive nature of the kills tells him he is looking for someone mentally unstable and emotionally unattached yet highly functional: he's likely looking for a sociopath. Torture suggests a sexual sadist.

That was another peculiarity: the victims were all male. Statistically, females are more often the victim of serial killings, due to most serial killers being male. One commonality amongst all killers is that they hunt within their biological preferences: same ethnic groups or cultural backgrounds and whatever gender fits their sexuality. There are no indicators to suggest a female killer. So he is looking for a homosexual male. Torturing these victims could be a way of denying his own sexuality and punishing them for theirs; he needed to find out if any of the victims were openly gay.

Molly appeared suddenly with two cups of coffee in hand. She was still here? He looked at her in surprise as he accepted the mug in her outstretched arm. "You're still here," he mused, returning his gaze to the cadaver.

"I can't leave while you're still here," she giggled clumsily, "unless I really want to lose my job." He forced a small smile. Molly was never particularly good at making jokes, but after all this time, it was comforting to hear her awkward humor. "You haven't left this room in almost three hours, so I thought you might want some coffee."

"Thank you," he sipped it idly; it made him skip a beat. Black, two sugars. She had only gotten him coffee once, almost three years ago, and she still remembered how he took it. Fascinating creature, Molly Hooper: so anxious yet so aware of people.

_"You look sad when you think he can't see you." That caught him off guard. No one just read him like that. He was a master of concealing emotions when they decided show up in his life, however infrequently that was. Yet here was Molly Hooper, strange, innocent, soft-spoken Molly Hooper, reading him like a book. "Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."_

_He made eye contact with her. For the first time in a long time, he hesitated, unsure quite what to say. "You can see me," it was less of a statement towards her and more of a realization to himself. She could see him. She had always seen him._

_"I don't count."_

She had always been aware of him. She could always see him. Hearing her say that she didn't count truly and honestly hurt him. Had he been so cruel, so unappreciative to her for all of those years? He assumed he had. And yet it was clear in her eyes that she still thought she didn't count. How to make her see. Observant as she was, Molly Hooper was still just average. And very hard on herself. Yet her she was, compliant and willing to serve as ever. One day he'd show her how important she was.

"Anything promising?" she asked shyly.

"Oh yes," he smiled at her, "he's good, very good, Molly. Cleans up his act so no one can find him. But in doing that he paints a very clear picture of himself for those who know how to decipher it."

"Meaning you," she gleams in admiration.

"Meaning me," he couldn't keep the smugness from his tone, "possibly only me. Would love to stay and spell it all out to you but I should get going, get a jump on him and whatnot. Keep these for as long as you possibly can, I may need to reexamine them. If not, pictures, lots of pictures, send them to my e-mail," he rushed about to collect his coat and scarf as he talked, mind already flooded with which angles to start with.

"Still using the same one?" she inquired.

He paused. No, he wasn't, he had changed all of his contact information when he left. When he first landed in London, he almost felt like a stranger in his own city. Three hours in this hospital, talking with Molly, and it felt as if he'd never left. He smiled, and watched with some vanity as she tried to hide hers. "Yes." And he disappeared through the doors. He didn't have much time before the killer struck again, no time to waste.

The game was on.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. 3  
This chapter's a little short, hopefully the shortest they'll be. I was itching to get it out there so the fun could really begin. May go back and tweek it a little but hopefully nothing too major (if it ends up being important I'll let you know at the beginning of the chapter it will be relevant to).  
Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Even if it's just a "hey nice job," it assures me I'm doing something people are reading and liking. So please don't be shy. The more comments I receive the more motivated I'll be to get future chapters up. **


	4. A Mind Like No Other

Chapter 3

No one else saw the pattern. The police thought the abduction and dump sites of the victims were random. As far as he could tell, their simple little minds still did not observe. The locations in which the bodies were found were forming a circle around St. Bartholomew's hospital. How they managed to miss something so obvious, he may never know. He assumed geographical profiling was standard nowadays. As of right now, the abduction sites still appeared random, but surely they had a more complex pattern he was simply missing due to only scratching the surface of the case. Nonetheless, there was something he needed in Saint Bartholomew's.

He only had a day left before the killer struck again. The victims were each abducted, tortured, and dumped within a few hours. The amount of damage inflicted in that little amount of time showed that their torment never ceased until it finally killed them; too little time to take them to any specific location, unless he had one near the hospital. He'd search for that later. Right now he wants to know what was so important about St. Bartholomew's.

Given everything he knew at that point, he had four theories as to the killer's intentions. There was always a reason. It could be a cry to get caught. Some are so desperate to stop but physically cannot on their own. Leaving carefully planned patterns such as this one is rather effective way of helping the police reach you faster, unless, apparently, their name is Greg Lestrade and they can't see what's right in front of them. Or he could be a doctor or nurse seeking attention or admiration for their work. Underappreciation in the workplace is a relatively common trigger for the mentally unstable. The last one would make him almost impossible to catch: he could just be mocking the police, screaming "hey, look what I can do?" at them just for fun. That would mean psychosis, paired with unparalleled intellect. He had seen that before. But Jim Moriarty was dead, shot himself in the mouth right in front of him. Not only were these murders too primal for Jim Moriarty, but required a level of personalization that Jim preferred to refrain from. Torturing someone like that required feeling everything they feel, and Moriarty preferred not to get his hands dirty.

He walked in on Molly in the middle of an examination. She had never asked much of Sherlock in the past, except to let her do her job on her own. He respected someone who wanted to make their own way in the world. Normally he would not have interrupted her – he knows how frustrating it is to have your concentration interrupted – but he was racing against a clock.

"Have you forgotten?" he broke the deafening silence in the mortuary. "Closer, always look closer. Smaller details are harder to see from a distance. But they will tell you everything."

"So you're so keen on reminding everyone," he approached the table, supporting his weight with his hands, "but not everyone can see what you do."

His lip twitched as he fought the conceited smile. "You always manage to find them, eventually. But right now I need your attention."

"Sherlock –"

"The killer will strike again tomorrow, Molly," he cut her off before argued against him, "I need to be there when he does, if not to stop him then to find out as much as I can before he gets too far. You are the eyes and ears of this hospital: always observing the natural order and never disturbing it because of your own social anxiety. I need that right now."

"Why?" she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Because for whatever reason he's fixated on this hospital. So far the three victims have all been dumped within a five-mile radius of the hospital. On a map it looks like they could be circling the hospital but they occur out of sequence so I can't predict where the next one will end up. Something about this hospital is important to him so I need to know if anyone, _anyone_ that works here acts in any way disconnected or out-of-tune with the rest of society; anyone that voices that they don't get the amount of attention or respect they deserve, or anyone who hides that. Anyone who is confident and likable but short-tempered and threatening when they're angered. You're good at noticing people, Molly. Is there anyone employed here who makes you especially nervous when they get angry?"

"Everyone makes me nervous when they're angry," she answered almost ashamedly.

He took hold of her shoulders. _"Think,_ Molly," he locked eyes with her. "Anyone at all who fits that description?"

He could tell the suddenness and urgency of the request made her uncomfortable, and he would have loved to give her time to process and analyze, but he didn't have that luxury. Realistically he knew that whoever he was looking for would not be found tomorrow, he was too cunning for that, but the hospital was key, and the quicker he found out why, the closer he would be to his culprit.

"I – I don't know," her voice cracked a little, "I don't want to wrongly accuse someone of being a killer,"

"You're not accusing anyone, you're just observing," he tried to be patient with her.

"But if I give you wrong information you'll waste time on that," she sighed, dropping her head. "I'm not a detective, Sherlock. I'm not you. I'm just... Molly."

He picked her chin up and leaned down closer to her, so she could not avert his gaze. "Yes you are. That's who I need. You're the only person I could trust with this sort of information so prematurely and you're the only person who can give me the most informed, most unquestionable answer based on years of observation and study. Molly Hooper, I'm only asking you to stop trembling for a moment and _think:_ does _anyone_ affiliated with this hospital fit that description?" She was frozen. "Do you need me to run it by you again?"

"No, no I remember," it wasn't anxiety that held her in place. She was thinking, remembering faces and body language and all those little things only the quiet ones would ever notice about people. He dared not move in fear of breaking her trance. Her eyes moved around his face, out of focus, because she wasn't looking at him; her eyes were analyzing her memories.

They stood like that for easily five minutes before her focus reset itself. "No," she answered almost hesitantly.

His neck snapped backwards in disbelief. "What?"

"No, no one fits," she repeated.

He released his grip on her thin shoulders. "Doesn't work here," he paced about the room, hands in a payer position against his chin, "doesn't work here, doesn't work here… okay so the hospital is of sentimental value to him, not direct." This eliminated one possible motive but added a few more: someone he knows died here and he blames the hospital. Someone he knows is currently being treated here but it doesn't look good. He himself was treated here and blames the hospital for something going wrong. He didn't like any of these as much as his first four ideas, not nearly as exciting, but who was he to decide what was a good or bad motive for murder.

"Thank you Molly, I'll be off now," his mind raced with the new information as he headed for the door. "You may resume your previous activities. Act as if these events never happened if it allows you to concentrate better," he hoped she would take that as him telling her not to get overemotional about how close in proximity they had been for five solid minutes. If she fainted no one would be around to assist her. Emotions were beyond his comprehension so for all he knew that was a legitimate possibility.

"Sherlock," she called him as he was hallway out the door. He looked back, only to see her avoiding his gaze, unable to say what she meant to. He gave her a warm smile, reading clearly on her face what she could not voice. "Yes, I meant it." And he left.

He would always trust and value Molly Hooper.

For now the lack of police resources was still manageable. Sure they had better access to technology and databases, but even with all of that he was still ahead of them. He put out a message to the homeless network to be on the lookout tonight and tomorrow for any physical description, dump site, or place of refuge they could dig locate. He emphasized for none of them to get too close; this man did not target the homeless but if noticeably followed or threatened he will attack.

He sat on his bed in his hotel room, hunched over a map of London with all of the abduction and dump sites circled, all of his observations handwritten on loose leaf paper, all of the victims' family histories and personal information he could find, lain out in front of him in a half circle. The Americans had gotten him in to writing essential information down when taking everything in to ensure nothing is missed or overlooked. He gave credit where it was due when it was deserved; the Bureau had good minds working for it. But then again, they were the ones that approached him during his stay in the States.

The amount of precision needed to abduct and dump those bodies in those predetermined locations suggested tactical training and strength. And the manner in which he handles the torture: controlling everything about their situation, from how painful the cut to how long until they died; incredible self-control and more than basic knowledge of human anatomy and physiology. Plus the complete lack of forensic evidence anywhere at the dump sites or on the bodies. Military, police, and Crime Scene Investigator all jump to the forefront of his mind. But then there was doctor, Medical Examiner, EMT, any type of first responder. Lawyer was less likely but no reason to rule it out just yet. This guy could be anyone with a higher education.

He rubbed his face with both hands. No criminal was impossible to catch. Evading the law was simple enough but not him. He saw what others couldn't, saw what even the culprits themselves would never notice because in the end people are all the same, all just mediocre minds that only see and never observe. No one is that clever.

This was the part of the investigation where John would say something so average that it would spark a deduction in his head. He needed that person who thought like the rest of them to help him see. He needed an assistant. Perhaps he could call up Molly… No, the clock said 3:14am. He wanted her well-rested in case he needed her come sunrise. No point in him attempting any rest; this case was far too intriguing; he couldn't stop thinking about it if he tried.

Maybe he was looking at all of this the wrong way. He was assuming that this man, who had already proven himself of considerable intelligence, was of the same standard as the rest of humanity. He made that mistake with Jim Moriarty and it almost killed him and John. What changed when you added to the equation a mind like his own?

A game. He consistently considered his cases games because he enjoyed them. He was never bored when he was working on a case. This was all a game to him, too. He was playing a game with the police. He was bored. The victims were the pawns. Games need pieces if there is to be more than one player. What better way to get the police to play a game than to give them some bodies.

He swept all of the personal information about the victims onto the floor with one arm. None of it mattered; the victims were random, unimportant, just happened to be vulnerable in the wrong place at the wrong time. He leaned in closer to the photos Molly had sent him of the victims, both hers and the hospital's official copies. Apparently when the hospital took on victims of a murder case they got copies of forensic photographs for record-keeping purposes. Clear signs of aggression but no signs of personalization or other emotional output; inconsistent evidence everywhere, actions contradicting other actions, either this man had bipolar disorder or this was all completely staged, all of it. Every last action was staged, up to the amount of aggression exerted on the victims. He was manipulating the facts of his own psychological profile: everything and anything found was only what he wanted to be known about him.

Yes, a mind like his own changed everything.

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**Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Even if it's just a simple "hey nice job" it assures me that I'm doing something worthwhile and that people are enjoying what they're reading. So please don't be shy, I love feedback. The more I receive the more frequently this will update because I'll be more motivated.**


	5. The Game

Chapter 4

He was only seeing what the killer wanted him to see because this was a side of him not even he had acknowledged until recently. This man had experienced the death of his heart and was discovering freedom from guilt and sorrow and pain, discovering life without emotion. Pushing the envelope in a way such as this was a part of him before his transformation. Everything he was now was a desensitized version of his former self. So, to be careful, he was hiding behind a carefully constructed rouse. But, as Irene Adler had put it, disguise is always a self-portrait. A power play with large sacrifices masked by a translucent drape. Oh, this was getting rather fun.

One of his homeless connections tipped him off to the location of the next victim at five a.m. Good hour, he supposed; anyone awake was only half so and the darkness still offered him some cover. He slipped them an extra £50 to keep a look out while he examined the body. Mindful of the flash, he photographed the body as he worked in case someone came around and he was not yet finished. This was the best way to find what he needed: with the victim at the same place the assailant was when he disposed of them and worked against forensic measures. Odds are he will see what the police cannot. Visiting the other three dump sites had given him little, but this one was promising.

Fresh blood, skin still slightly pink; he could not have been more than an hour behind him. The alley was large enough for a vehicle, and the two dumpsters could conceal a body well enough, but he chose to have him out in the open, waiting for someone to find him. Because the dead man would tell them nothing useful, just sit there on a slab in the morgue and mock their idiotic minds.

He saw something white within the mouth. With a set of tweezers and nylon gloves, he carefully pulled it out: a slip of paper, hand-torn, with modern ink but made to appear from a 1940s style typewriter. "Whatever remains," Two words of an incomplete thought. Obviously the police had the other fragments, but this thought was not done. They had included a comma. A silent promise of more bodies. The likelihood of him seeing the other thoughts without going to the police was slim. He hated working without all of the pieces.

He examined the ground around the body, trying to act out the killer's movements. He parked the truck fifty feet from the body, on an angle to provide the most cover. No apparent drag marks, so he was strong enough to carry the man. Nothing in his profile thus far suggested a partner. But the body itself had signs of a struggle around it; the man wasn't dead when he was dumped. That was something he had never seen before. Most serial killers cannot stand to part with a victim until they are definitely dead. Yet another contradiction to his obsessive nature. This much control and precision did not allow for the victim to remain alive during the disposal. Perhaps he had found his first mistake.

This was an able-bodied individual; likely a cyclist or some type of endurance sports athlete. If a struggle existed, there would likely be a piece of the attacker left behind. He turned his attention away from the body again and back to its surroundings. Something would be there, something… was that blood?

Granted, there was blood everywhere, due to the victim still have a working heart to pump more out of the thirty-one stab wounds littering his body. To anyone else that single drop of blood that had just caught his attention would have meant nothing. But it was two feet away from the body and did not line up with the spray patterns of any of the arterial spurts. It was a stray. He crouched over the tiny droplet, mentally calculating the distance and observations in his head. The police would never run a single drop of blood for DNA in a crime scene this bloody in fear of wasting time and taxpayer dollars, but he wasn't the police, and he would run it. The odds were in his favor of this being the killer's blood. He had finally come across the mistake. He fished out the plastic bag in his pocket, containing a cotton swab and a vile for it, among other basic forensic necessities, to collect the blood sample. Now all he needed was a forensics lab that would cooperate with him.

Who knew crime labs were run by such prideful morons. Apparently any work done within a forensics lab requires police or other government authorization. While he understood it to a degree, he wondered where those private detectives actually got their forensic work done. Fortunately for him he always carried Mycroft's authorization card on him in case of emergencies, so he was in without much fuss. They didn't even run it. But he realized quickly that a single drop of blood would not give him much; DNA testing takes weeks to come back to an individual, and they have to be in some sort of database to come up. If this man had an otherwise clean record, odds are he wouldn't find a match. It was much easier to just match a sample with a control to link a suspect to a crime scene, but he didn't have any suspects yet, the pool was still too broad. He needed to narrow this down. Until then the little drop of blood on the swab would just exist to mock him.

He lay awake in his hotel room staring at the ceiling. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since he had encountered the last victim, and he had not made much ground. The news was all over it, of course, dubbing this man London's most vicious killer since Jack the Ripper. He thought that was a bit much. All things considered this man wasn't vicious, per say, he was meticulous. Jack the Ripper had been sloppy; had he existed in the modern day, he would have been caught before his third victim. Every move this man made was planned and rehearsed and perfectly executed. It only appeared brutal on the outside because of the cruelty and intent behind it. This man wasn't Jack the Ripper. This man was Jim Moriarty.

He had beaten Moriarty. He could beat this man too.

He sat up and looked at his map again. The fourth victim's dump site corresponded with his theory of them circling St. Bartholomew's hospital. He wondered if the abduction sites would be as important to his geographical profile as the disposal sites. He sighed heavily. _I'm getting slow, _he cursed himself, _of course it matters. _"Everything matters," he mumbled aloud and opened his laptop. Perhaps one of the media outlets had leaked where they were taken from.

He looked at the notes he had snuck from the forensics lab while he had access to the police computers. The blood had been a dead end, but that lab was also involved in this case, and he snuck on to one of the computers in the lab while he was waiting for the analysis. He had just enough time to write down the text from the slips of paper left with the first three victims. "Must be true.", "one you have", "however improbable," and "whatever remains," were the clues the killer had left behind, clearly left out of order to confuse the police. It had taken him about a minute to deduce an order, and where the blanks were in the message. He didn't have time to wait for two more victims though. Oddly enough, the words felt familiar, like he had heard them spoken before when he was only half listening.

Finally, he came across a newspaper that had revealed the abduction sites. He scanned them all and quickly circled their locations on his map.

He stared at the piece of paper in disbelief. Looking back to the screen, he double and triple checked their locations with what he had just circled on his map. No, that couldn't be right. That was… impossible. That was just impossible.

He grabbed his coat off the back of the hook on the hotel door and ran out to the street to hail a cab, not even bothering with his usual scarf. Trying to fall asleep could wait for tomorrow night. He had somewhere to be.

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**Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Even if it's just a simple "hey nice job" it assures me that I'm doing something worthwhile and that people are enjoying what they're reading. So please don't be shy, I love feedback. The more I receive the more frequently this will update because I'll be more motivated.**


	6. Whatever Remains

**Sorry this chapter took so long to post. I've been a bit busy lately with school and some other fanfictions. This one got a bit neglected, unfortunately. Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read it, and especially to Novoux, who got me off my ass and got me to continue on this piece. Hope you enjoy it!**

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Chapter 5

This visitation was probably long overdue. For obvious reasons, he had avoided this side of the city. He needed to stay focused on what was in front of him, not go gallivanting around London in search of memories. Now, it seemed, he could no longer avoid the area, or its associated memories. When had he become a creature of sentiment?

Northumberland Street. Angelo's restaurant sat adjacent to it, looking out at the busy intersection. Remnants of a case broke to the forefront of his mind. Lots of pink. The smell of a shady apartment building. Sitting in Angelo's in the dim lighting waiting for something to happen. An army doctor across from him, enjoying his first proper meal since his return from Afghanistan. John Watson pressured him to eat a lot during their eighteen months together, forgetting entirely about his own issues with eating due to post-traumatic stress. Or perhaps it was the opposite. He didn't care to think about it. It was the past. His time with John Watson was over. He had accepted this after his faked suicide.

The first victim was taken here. How does one abduct a physically fit male victim from a crowded London street without being noticed? Was he dealing with another cabbie? No, absolutely not. With the years of training required to do what this man did, he wouldn't be underemployed. Unlike the self-proclaimed genius cabbie, this man's mind was not wasted. The cabbie killed for his children and to finally flaunt his supposed intelligence. Sherlock had never given him the benefit of the doubt there. Once a secondary party had come into play – the consulting criminal Jim Moriarty – he became skeptical of how much of the cabbie's "genius" was really his own and how much of it was the careful instruction of the spider pulling the strings of his intricate web. His new playmate does not care for money or favor; he enjoys the attention but somehow that felt secondary, too. The ritual is important, but how important can the victims themselves be if he's willing to part with one before they're properly dead?

Sherlock rubbed his temples. The data was confusing, to say the least. The killer jumped back and forth too much. He was hiding something big and doing so very well. Sherlock couldn't see past all the haze in his mind to get to something seemingly obvious. Why was his mind so distracted by all that had happened here, anyway? This case was far more interesting than anything in the past. One can do nothing with the past, why was his mind suddenly favoring it over the case at hand?

He needed a proper place to think and clear his mind. He needed to go to his mind palace. Grinding his teeth, he made for the hotel room again.

The first victim is always the most significant to any killer. It's where their mind first went when it snapped, where the trigger tells them they can find relief. Everything about it is important: abduction site, methodology, the victim's death, and the dump site, all of them are thought out in advance to ensure they live up to the fantasy. This killer in particular must have been pre-meditating his attacks for months, if not years. So the first is the most important. It's when he started divulging in his desires. He wished he had more data from the first kill. All he had were some crime scene notes stolen from the police database, some photos, and the abduction and disposal sites. Everything he needed to know about this man was right in front of him. He just needed to put all the pieces together to form the correct picture.

His mind palace would help him with that. Staring at all of the data sprawled out on his bed helped organize his thoughts, but he didn't just need them organized anymore, he needed them to form some sort of sequence. Any holes in his memory or observations could not be tolerated. His mind palace prevents that.

Pushing the mess aside, he lay down on the bed, and concentrated. A mental map appeared behind his closed eyelids. He used it to navigate down the corridors of his mind, in hopes of finding the correct door. Sometimes the door changed color, but the handle was always the same: polished gold. Any other doors he passed had silver handles. He needed to find this specific door. It would lead to the safe room of his mind palace, where all the bits of information came together.

He found the correct door after a minute, and went inside. A mind palace for an individual is meant to be somewhere safe, somewhere they can trust all of their information to be kept and sorted without being lost or exposed. When building one, it's important to keep a specific look in mind to help keep everything in one place. Sherlock's mind palace is a library, a large library stretching on seemingly for miles to accommodate all of the information he keeps stored here. As a child the idea of a private library always made him smile. He grew out of the expensive tastes of his parents and brother, but for his desire for a private library. So he built one for himself, filled with all of the information he could ever want. And the more he learned, the more it grew.

Cases had their own special wing in his mind palace. Nothing about the work was trivial, save for anything Anderson might have said. Very few events were trimmed off the memories of a case before safe storage in the library. They were the most important aspects of his life. And he never threw them away in case he needed to go back to them.

In the grand room of the library he could access everything. No need to walk around it much; when he came here for information retrieval it all came to him. Storing information required walking to the specific wings. He brought everything he knew of the current case in front of him, and sorted through each piece one at a time, focusing on varying interpretations of each piece until he found the one he knew was the most logical assumption based on all of the facts behind them. Connecting all the little red strings and loose ends was much easier in his mind palace, where no outside stimuli could distract him, no unrelated thoughts could trouble him, and no biases could find him.

Blood. Stab wounds. Narrowly-missed arteries. Burns. Cuts. Clothes. Newspaper snippets. Official police reports. Reading between the lines. Pieces of paper lodged in the throats of corpses. What's there. What it means. What's not there. What it means. _"Whatever remains."_ Whatever remains…

…_Oh._

He almost screamed as he sat up in his bed, snapping out of his mind palace the moment all the pieces fell into place.

_Oh._

He had to be sure. He could not phone the police and leave an anonymous tip just yet. There was too little solid evidence. Three years ago that would not have been a problem. The words from his mouth were, at one point, enough to convince Detective Inspector Lestrade. Any solid pieces of evidence for the court rooms were their problems. In exchange for a puzzle he did their work for them. It was a good relationship. But that was over. Any anonymous tip would require real warrant for a manhunt this desperate.

At least, this is what he told himself over and over on the cab ride to his destination. Going and seeing it all first hand, having indisputable proof right in front of him before he told the police everything, it was better. He scoffed at his sudden need to justify his actions to himself.

When he arrived he paid the cabbie quickly and waited until he drove off to go inside. Partially because he was unsure of what he would find. Based on the killer's geographical profile and timetable, this was a very likely spot to find him tonight. And it made Sherlock uncomfortable with its possibilities. But he swallowed back the emotional responses threatening his composure and went inside.

He felt no reason to be quiet as he strode up the stairs, trying to feel the air for anything to suggest the presence of another person. He felt none, but did not trust this at all. At the top of the stairs he pushed through another door. His suspicions were confirmed right in front of his eyes. Here was the silhouette of his murderous playmate, waiting patiently for him in the dark. He had been waiting a long time.

Sherlock felt no smug amusement at being right.

"I couldn't bear the idea of you being dead. For three years I thought every day would be my last. So many times I stared at my gun, a knife, a rope, hell, even the roof at one point. I thought it would be poetic. But then one day all of that stopped. I realized how stupid it would be for me to take my own life. So stupid because I knew you were alive out there, somewhere. I saw you once - just once, for a fleeting moment on some street in Paris. But you still never came home. So I decided that instead of taking my own life, I would find a way to lure you back here. Back to me. You've always loved a good puzzle. They're your weakness. What better way than this?"

John Watson smirked, dripping knife in hand, as he slit the throat of the man whom he held tightly by the hair, unconscious, now never to awaken again. He let the man thud against the cold floor of their former shared flat on Baker Street. Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, he met Sherlock's eyes in the dark. John himself was shrouded in shadow, but he knew the familiar shape well, and could feel his eyes boring in to his own. A chill ran down the detective's spine.

"Welcome home, Sherlock."

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**Thanks so much for reading! Please leave any comments it may bring to mind! Any little thought is useful to me!**

**This chapter was heavily inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr. Everything thus far was weaved around that spark to have it make sense, and now I'm excited to see where it takes me from here. Again thank you for taking the time to read!**


	7. It's In the Eyes

**Sorry this chapter took so long to post. All of my works have been halted recently due to my graduation fast approaching. I've been rushing around with school and family obligations so all the fanfictions have kind of been pushed to the side. Hope it was worth the wait! Thanks for reading!**

**[***]**

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Chapter 6

"John," Sherlock breathed. Memories flashed in his mind. The lapping of heavily chlorinated water against a concrete pool. Twenty-one years since he had been to this pool. Here he would finally meet face-to-face with his like-minded shadow. John emerging from a behind a red door. No, that wasn't right. It couldn't be John; simple, kind-hearted, normal, idiotic John. He wasn't a killer. Underneath his coat lay enough explosives to level a house. No, he wasn't a killer. Not back then.

Could it really be him this time? Sherlock glanced around their former shared flat, hoping at any moment Moriarty would emerge from behind the scenes like he had the last time they found themselves in this situation. But John had just slit a man's throat right in front of him. Concealed by shadows, nonetheless, but the voice was undoubtedly his. No tricks, no illusions, no misconstruing this time. John Watson was his killer.

"John," Sherlock repeated a little louder, taking a step forward. "John, what, what's going on? What," for perhaps the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words, "what have you done?"

"What have I done?" John repeated coldly, "what have _you _done, Sherlock Holmes? Three years you've been alive. I watched you jump off the roof of St. Bart's. I took your pulse when you were lying on the pavement with your head smashed in. I cleaned your blood off my clothes. I _buried you. _And then I go on holiday to Paris with Sarah and see you walking down the street in some market in the same sodding coat I'd been dreaming about for three years. You let me think you were dead for three years, Sherlock, and from the looks of things you weren't planning on informing me of your survival anytime soon. So no, the question isn't what have I done. The question is why the _hell _did you do that to me, Sherlock? I couldn't find you. So I made you come to me."

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not his John. Unknowing of what to say, Sherlock instead closed the door behind him and crossed the room to examine the deceased, kneeling for a better look in this darkness. Bled out quickly, dead in almost an instant. Clear signs of torture; he must have passed out from the pain. Suddenly the subject nauseated him. He didn't want to think about it.

Next he looked up at John, lit from the street lights outside the window at his new angle. He looked older. Not in the way people normally looked when they hadn't seen them in a while. He looked drained. New wrinkles had formed on his face and stress had taken its toll on his once distinctively military posture. In this low lighting, he looked like a vampire; dead-pale flesh and black, sunken eyes. Nothing like the memory of John Watson he parted with three years ago. This new John chilled him.

"John," he held out his hand, "give me the knife."

"Why?" the former soldier challenged.

"It's done its job," he answered delicately, "I see no reason to keep it so close at the moment."

"Worried I'll kill you too?" John asked humorlessly.

"Your words," the detective said calmly.

The soldier didn't move. Hesitantly, Sherlock reached out to John's left hand, turning white with the intensity of his grip around the handle. He skipped a beat before brushing his hand against his friend's to slip his fingers around the weapon. John's grip slackened, and then the weapon was out of his hand.

Sherlock saw a storm erupt behind John's cold eyes. And then he collapsed.

Narrowly avoiding stabbing him in the shoulder, Sherlock caught John as the shorter one's knees gave out, his arms not even attempting to catch him. Sherlock wondered briefly how long ago his self-preservation instinct stopped functioning. He lowered the two of them to the flow carefully. John clearly had no intentions of standing anymore.

"It's really you," he whispered, the sound broken and barely audible.

"It's really me," Sherlock reassured. Sentiment was not normally his area, but ever since he met John he found himself capable of certain degrees of it. Friendship is, after all, a form of sentiment, is it not?

"How?" was all John could manage.

"There'll be time for that," Sherlock mumbled, trying to keep his voice warm, as he leaned his friend back to support himself while he stood again. The look of protest in John's eyes was almost painful. "Right now we have to get rid of all the evidence. You've been careful but you've made mistakes."

The soldier's eyes were cold and calculating again. He looked almost insulted. "I've made none," he disagreed.

"I found a drop of your blood at one of the crime scenes," Sherlock informed him, "and I ran it at a lab. The results will take weeks to come back but I used my brother's card. They'll be informing him that the DNA test results he ran came in. You served in the military, John, you're in their databases. As soon as he sees that someone who was not him was running your DNA for something he's going to come and question you, regardless of what sort of speaking terms the two of you may or may not be on at the moment."

"None," the blond responded. "How is you running my DNA in a forensics lab _my _mistake?"

"All of this was for me, was it not? You know how I am. All I ever have to work with is trace evidence. If found your DNA at a crime scene. You didn't scrub it thoroughly. You dumped that victim while he was still alive. He was still fighting when you drove him to that alley. You had to have noticed that you were bleeding. You honestly think a drop didn't fall?"

"I didn't feel anything." John's voice was hollow, dead. Sherlock stopped.

This was his fault. This happened to John because of him. He faked his suicide to protect his best friend, but how much had it really done for him in the end? He may have been alive, but he hadn't been living. He had become the doctor's life. And then he left. He hated himself. But there would be time for self-loathing later. He needed to clean this place.

"I'm going to dispose of them properly," Sherlock pointed to the corpse, "the police won't even find him. And then this killer is going to disappear. He got what he wanted. And you and I are going to talk. There's a lot to talk about." John nodded solemnly. "Should I be starting with an apology or an explanation?"

"You should be starting by presenting your face to be punched," John mumbled. Sherlock's lips twitched into a brief smile. His John was still in there somewhere.

[***]

221B Baker Street was scrubbed spotless before having its former layer of dust returned to the cleansed areas. John sat in a corner of the room where the dust lines would not be disturbed as Sherlock rationed portions from throughout the flat to establish the illusion that no one had entered the place formerly filled with such fond memories. Once Sherlock was satisfied, the two walked out onto the street together.

"Where is it?" John asked.

"Where no one will look," Sherlock answered.

"How can you be certain?"

"No one looks for a tree in a forest, John."

John pondered the expression for a moment. "Cemetery?"

The detective nodded. "Best not to discuss details when there are other ears around. Where are you staying now?"

John's smile was empty. "Nowhere. Can't afford London on an army pension, can't hold down a job. I've been staying at Baker Street the past few weeks. Mrs. Hudson offered to let me stay but I couldn't pay the rent. When I moved out she never tried renting it out again. I think it would have been strange for her, having someone living upstairs that wasn't constantly almost blowing up the kitchen or playing the violin at three in the morning."

"I never blew up the kitchen," Sherlock interjected.

"You totaled two microwaves and blue the fuse half a dozen times," John reminded him.

"That's not an explosion that's overestimating the potential of kitchenware," Sherlock defended. "I much prefer the equipment at Bart's but at the same time it's easier to perform spontaneous experiments at home." He paused. "We can head back to my hotel room then."

"Not on to a new flatmate?" John asked harshly.

"No," he kept his response short. There would be time to talk about everything. No sense in discussing the trivial occurrences of his three years. He was more interested in what John had been doing now.

He looked down at the doctor. The limp was back. Not surprising, but still upsetting. His eyes looked older than the rest of him, tired and cold and dead. But mostly sad, impossibly sad.

And no matter what happened from here on out, Sherlock would never forgive himself for being the one to make them look like they did now.

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**Blah blah blah lots of dialog in this chapter. Felt very filler-y to me. I'm feeling some serious angst coming on for the next chapter. Hope y'all like angst. Please leave any thoughts if it stirred anything in your mind you think is worth sharing. Thanks again so much for reading!**


	8. Don't Disappear

**I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long to finish. I've been really busy lately with college technicalities so I haven't had as much time to myself as I would prefer having during the summer! I hope this chapter is worth the wait! Thanks so much for reading!**

**[xxx]**

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Chapter 7

The sight of Sherlock's hotel room in such disarray was a bit comforting to John. Sherlock caught the tiny grin that flashed on his lips before he cleaned it off as they entered the room. Reassuring to him, perhaps, that at least the detective had not changed in his absence. Much had happened to John these past three years, and Sherlock had yet to hear of it. Part of him did not want to know what could drive his friend to such extreme lengths, the thought processes and psychological tortures he had to have endured to end up here. John was no stranger to killing, and Sherlock never disillusioned himself to this fact: he had seen John kill for him without his hands even trembling. But that was the battlefield. That was the honor and duty of the soldier. This was no longer justifiable killing. This was murder. Cold-blooded, refined murder. And it was for him. He knew John capable of killing to protect him. He never would have thought him capable of murdering for him. What did that make him in the soldier's eyes?

After clearing away some of the clutter, they sat facing one another, Sherlock on the bed, John on the chair in the corner. Then Sherlock revealed the secrets and purpose of his suicide. For the most part his deliverance was factual and emotionless, like output from a database. Some events of course had been painful for him as well, but his pride could not allow him to reveal it. Trying as best as possible to hide the hurt in his voice as he recounted the fall itself, the difficulties of the first few months without his friend, his work in America, he told John everything.

John listened intently, not cutting in or moving once, barely even breathing. He concentrated on every word that fell from Sherlock's mouth, as if reveling in hearing the sound again, cherishing every unnecessarily long explanation and pretentious term. Slowly the understanding began to light up his eyes, and his face softened minutely. When Sherlock stopped speaking, he looked up and met the detective's impossible eyes. Concern. Apprehension. Even some slight anxiety. He feared John's reaction.

"Okay," the former soldier broke the silence.

Sherlock flinched. "Okay?" he echoed.

"I get it," John stated simply, "I didn't understand before. I tore myself apart trying to understand why you killed yourself. Why you lied and said all of those things. Now I get it. So okay."

The raven-haired one angled his head, keeping their gazes fixed. "Just 'okay?'"

John smiled. It was not a happy smile. "Like I said, I tortured myself trying to understand why. But I never stopped believing in you. I did as you asked because it was your dying wish that the world see you as a fraud. But that didn't mean I had to. And I didn't. I never stopped believing in all I saw you do. So I'm shocked. I'm absolutely thoroughly shaken. But at the same time it's just so you. Only you could be capable of something like this." His lips twitched fondly. "The Great Sherlock Holmes. The greatest mind the world has and ever will see, can jump off a building and live, just by making people believe he really did it. 'Just a magic trick' you said to me when you were standing up there. You weren't referring to your ability to observe, were you? You were referring to what you were about to do."

Sherlock's eyes widened marginally. It occurred to him that his companion must have run over that conversation in his mind repeatedly to commit it to memory, the final words of his best friend. John was wearing a mask of indifference, of calm and peaceful acceptance. Social behavior was by no mean's the detective's strong suit, but he understood the workings of the mind better than most University professors, and John Watson had many tells, even in this state of emotional drainage. Infinitesimal trembling of his brows and lower lip; indication of anxiety and stress. The savant had made an effort to communicate his survival without putting him in great risk. He was hitting himself for not noticing the hints left in Sherlock's carefully chosen last words to him.

The composure of the soldier was flawless, taught to him by his many years of military service, but nothing escaped the notice of Sherlock Holmes, his observation skills simultaneously his making and undoing.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, noting the twinge of pain in the doctor's eyes. Part of him wanted to stop all of this, give John a break from the never-ending hurt. He wondered if John would agree to it or fight to keep the conversation alive. "I'm… sorry I was not more clear about it."

"You were perfectly clear," John tried to laugh it off, "I'm just an idiot."

"No you're not," Sherlock was defensive, "perhaps not a genius but who's to say you should be. But I discovered very quickly the error in my calling you unintelligent. You're brilliant because you inspire genius, a conductor of light where none else can be found. You understand more about people than I ever could and I-" the soldier had cocked an eyebrow at him, unaccustomed to such levels of sentiment. It was new to him as well. "I relied on that. I still do. You're intelligence may be average but your mind is not. You see the world differently than other people. You see it through loyalty and friendship and empathy and through the eyes of someone that's seen the battlefield. You know exactly what man is capable of and you choose to be the opposite. So why you would suddenly elect to be the exact kind of person you abhor, someone who does not appreciate nor value human life, is something I cannot understand and quite frankly something I'm terrified of."

The doctor's eyes glimmered. "You're scared of me?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply. "I'm scared of the fact that what you've done is my fault."

"You didn't kill them."

"I think I may have killed you."

Silence hangs between them for a few beats, and then John stands. He takes Sherlock's hands in his own from where they rest against his philtrum, a habit of the detective's when he is thinking. He waits until the other meets his eyes to speak.

"Do I seem dead to you?" his voice is lower, softer. Sherlock has only ever heard him speak to girlfriends in this way, when he does not realize his flatmate is still home.

"In many figurative ways, yes," Sherlock responds, his own volume unconsciously lowering to match his friend's.

John laughs once. "You're the one that jumped off a building, and I'm the one that died. Go figure." He makes to return to his chair. Sherlock grabs his hands again.

"John," he breathes, "I'm sorry."

The doctor's eyes widen, and a chilling smile formed on his lips. His hands were trembling, still held securely by Sherlock. _"Tell him would you,"_ John whispered before his breathing became irregular. His pulse was frantic beneath Sherlocks' fingers.

The detective's mind was hard at work observing his behaviors. _Trembling, constricted pupils, hyperventilation, hysteric giggles, increased heart rate and blood pressure, John is experiencing an anxiety attack. _"John," he stood and held the shorter man's shoulders for support should his legs give out, "John, breathe, what's wrong, what have I said?" He held eye contact with his friend, but John's eyes were not in focus. They were remembering something, something unpleasant. Sherlock feared the possibilities. The doctor's eyes searched for something they could not find.

"John, listen to me," Sherlock commanded, "try to regulate your breathing. You need to calm down." John still could not hear him. Opting for action instead, the sleuth directed him to the bed and pushed him down into a sitting position, then tucked his head in between his knees. His hand rubbed the frantic one's back as he tried to calm his ragged breaths. He could hear him coughing in an attempt to disguise a sob. He said nothing, only continued to rub his friend's back as he recovered.

"I'm tired," was all the soldier said when he could breathe again. Sherlock did not argue; he looked as if he had not slept properly in three years. Just another portion of John's current condition to blame himself for.

"Go to sleep then," the detective offered him the bed and stood up. Fingers clamped desperately around his wrist; he looked down. John had not straightened himself out yet, had not even looked up to grab him. He never needed to. The two of them could always tell where the other was. And John did not need to communicate his request, nor would Sherlock hesitate long enough to make him feel obligated to.

Helping the doctor remove his shoes and find the pillows, he settled in to bed next to his former flatmate. He flicked the switch next to the bed to turn off the lights, and looked at John, who was studying his face with the intensity and hunger of a lioness watching her pray. It made him uncomfortable.

"You're going to disappear when I wake up," John stated flatly. It wasn't a question.

"I won't," Sherlock promises warmly, "I'll still be here."

"No you won't," John sighs, and then turns on his left side. "It's happened before."

The doctor is asleep before Sherlock can ask what he means. Based on context clues, the sleuth can make an inference. He doesn't like it.

[xxx]

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**Please leave any comments or constructive criticism. Every thought it inspires is appreciated. Thanks so much again for reading and I really hope the next update doesn't take as long!**


	9. Hello

**I feel like this story is really starting to move along. Not sure exactly where I'm headed with it but it's nice to watch it develop into something. Like I've said before I got this idea from a post I saw on Tumblr so now that I'm beyond that it's fun for me to just sort of freeform write with it and see what it becomes now. But to be honest I'm not sure how much further I'm going to go with it. I'd love to continue it but I'm not so sure. Let me know if I should.**

**[xxx]**

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Chapter 7

John sleeps soundly through the night. Sherlock does not. His sleeping patterns were never normal, and after his fake suicide he found himself sleeping even less. But he does not move in fear of waking the very obviously sleep-deprived doctor. At some point during his circadian rhythm - N3 he assumes, as his body would likely wish to increase its time spent in this state of sleep after such a long period of deprivation - John shifted closer to him, resting his head on his friend's shoulder and sighing. The position was not uncomfortable, so Sherlock did nothing to move him. He himself had never needed sleep, but John had always been favorable to it. Studies have shown that insomnia can lead to psychoses, namely due to the lack of REM sleep. Of course insomnia alone did not do this to John. But it could have worsened his state of mind. So he let him sleep.

He feels John take in a sharp breath, sharper than normal for one just awakening. Before he can look down, the soldier snaps into alertness and positions himself on his hands and knees, staring at Sherlock incredulously. Confusion. Anger. Disbelief. Refusal. More anger. Sherlock sits up, and John backs off the bed, getting to his feet. His whole body is tensed in his defensive stance. His eyes are dead. A chill runs up Sherlock's spine.

_Is he angry with me? Should I not have stayed with him? He asked me to stay. Does he regret it? _Reading John was easy, but he often made mistakes when attempting to read emotions and hidden thoughts. Had he made a mistake?

"John," he calls.

John's hands cover his ears. His eyes squeeze shut. "Shut up!" he screams, averting his body. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" His body is shaking in built up frustration.

"John," Sherlock calls again, "What's wrong?"

"You're not real," the soldier forces out through clenched teeth, "You're not real you're not real you're not real I won't fall for it this time."

"John what are you-" the detective attempts to move closer, towards the side of the bed he had dismounted from, but John's continued struggling halts him. His fingers are tugging at his hair, likely pulling some loose with the intensity of his grip, and he drops to his knees. Towering over him would be unwise, so Sherlock stops. "What's wrong? Tell me."

"Shut _up!" _John snarls. "Leave me alone! Go!"

He meets his eyes for just a moment. Sherlock feels something unpleasant stir in his chest. John's eyes are completely gone. The eyes that found his for one small second are terrified, abused, and manic. Pupils blown, capillaries a swollen red, muscles darting as they take him in. Does John think he's a hallucination?

"John, it's me, it's Sherlock," he tries to get through to him.

"You're not!" John gets to his feet now, hands flailing in fury. "You're not because Sherlock Holmes is dead! I watched him jump off a building! I held his limp wrist and checked his pulse! I _washed_ _his blood off my hands! _Sherlock Holmes is _dead!"_

Now Sherlock stands, hands held out in peace and taking a vulnerable position so as not to corner the manic one. "John, you never saw the impact, because there wasn't one. Remember what I told you yesterday, how I survived. It was just a trick, just a magic trick. A terrible trick meant to supply me with more time so as to protect you."

Sherlock offers his hand. John's eyes dart to it, to Sherlock's face, back to his hand, and then he swats it away. But he doesn't stop there. His fist cracks against the detective's face. Caught off guard, Sherlock loses his footing, which the soldier uses to secure a blow to his ribs and push him against the wall, pinning him against the concrete.

Sherlock often forgot how much stronger than him the shorter man was, admittedly because of his height. They had each received different forms of training: John military hand-to-hand combat, Sherlock martial arts from a master. As such John's training better prepared him for overpowering his opponent. And Sherlock had lost a significant amount of weight since last they saw one another. But he was in no means attempting to fight back. John needed to sort this out himself.

"Leave... me... alone..." John hisses. It almost frightens the detective with how bloodthirsty it sounds. He's set to kill him if it means shutting up this perceived false voice.

"John," he tries to soothe him, "I will not fight you. Try to think. Could you have honestly hit a hallucination? This has happened before, and I know you're smart enough to recognize a difference in this time from the previous one. You've punched me before. I asked you to, remember? We were on our way to the house of Irene Adler for the first time nearly four years ago. You're smart enough to recognize that that contact felt different, John. I feel different. Because I'm real."

He holds the doctor's gaze as he puzzles it through. Slowly, slowly, clarification begins to settle on John's face, and the clouds and ice clear away a little, giving way to what looks more like how Sherlock remembers them. His grip slackens around the wrist he has pinned against the wall, and his muscles relax, permitting Sherlock to breathe a little better were he breathing beneath the forearm pressed against his collarbones.

"S-Sherlock?" John whispers.

"Hello, John," Sherlock says warmly.

John stops. Sherlock has to catch him as he gives up everything he's been holding on to - his perceptions, his past, his present, his anger, his pain, the death of his best friend. Holding him securely, he half-carries, half walks him to the bed to sit down again, and crouches in front of him. "John, are you alright?" He asks, gravely concerned for the mental health of his friend. John was more broken than he had previously thought. And he had no one to blame for it but himself.

John looks at him, studying his face as he carefully mulls over his answer. "Yeah," he finally decides. "You're… you're really alive then."

Sherlock smiles weakly. "And you've still got a mean swing."

The doctor's eyes widen. "Oh, god," he mumbles, "you're bleeding." Rising to his still-shaken feet, he goes in search of a first-aid kit. Sherlock reaches up and touches his face, his fingers coming back red. He hadn't even noticed. The punch barely hurt, he had been so shocked.

John returns, a damp towel and some bandages in hand, and falls to his knees next to Sherlock. Reaching out, he takes his face and forces him to turn to face him. He wipes away the dripping blood first before dabbing at the area lightly to clean it and reduce further bleeding. Sherlock watches his face with careful eyes. He's in full patient-care mode now. Everything that has happened momentarily fades away. This is the best glimpse he has gotten of his John Watson since his return to London. It makes him smile in melancholy nostalgia. Perhaps if he had thought his strategy through more thoroughly he wouldn't have accidentally killed John, too.

"Irene would say you still love me," Sherlock comments lightly, hoping to appeal to John's fonder memories.

The quip exhibits a smirk. "Don't think she'd still agree after a body shot." Sherlock refuses the bandage John attempts to secure to his face. The doctor doesn't press the issue. The dark-haired sleuth injured himself often, and he rarely saw him use bandages or any form of disinfectants. He assumes Sherlock finds them uncomfortable, or maybe just unsightly. He gestures to Sherlock's ribs, where his fist had met with them a moment ago. "Let's have a look, then."

With a squint of his eyes, Sherlock reluctantly unbuttons his shirt, opening it to the left so John can inspect any damage. A bruise is already forming. Surprising considering he, again, feels nothing. John gives it a quick once-over, then dismisses it. "You'll live."

The detective's lips twitch into a brief half-smile before he fastens his shirt again. John's eyes are screaming a dozen apologies at his. He appeals with his own. _You have nothing to apologize for. You have nothing to feel guilty for. I am the one at fault here. I did this to you. I owe you a thousand apologies and so much more John. Please let me fix what I've done to you. Please - _

One of his own thoughts have catches him off guard. He breaks their gaze to ponder it.

_Please come back to me._

Appropriate phrasing, he supposes. A bit cliche, but he cannot find any variant that would better suit his feelings. John is lost, desperately seeking closure for a death that was not even real. He mourned a death he knew was not right, and it shattered his mental state. Sherlock would not blame him for the murders, just as he recognized his friend never accepted the idea that all of the adventures they shared had been fraud. A plea of not guilty by means of temporary insanity would keep him out of jail but not out of an asylum. He would not let that happen to his friend. Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective that can find the murderer behind any crime, any mind behind any scandal, was now going to help keep one out of the hands of the law.

Looking at John, he has no apprehension about this notion. Because he's doing it for John. His mind is set. It is worth it.

John smiles at him. He can see the determination in Sherlock's gaze, the desire to apologize but not knowing how to phrase it, the need to protect his friend, the guilt, the blame, the self-hatred. But that's not what helped pull him out from the clutches of his own shattered mind, that's not what killed the hallucination.

He sees Sherlock. His Sherlock. His best friend, his colleague, his crazy flatmate, his ticket to adventure, his grounding in civilian life, away from the hardships of war. Mycroft once told him "welcome back," suggesting that running with Sherlock Holmes was seeing the battlefield. But it isn't. It's coming home. And as he looks into those swimming gray eyes, searching him desperately for any signs that he'll be okay, he is suddenly confident for the first time in three years that he actually will be.

[xxx]

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**Please leave any comments it might stir up! I'm loving writing this but I'm not sure if I should continue it or not so if you want to see it keep going definitely speak up! Thanks so much for reading this far!**


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